


show me your mind and i'll show you mine

by farouche (AnonymousSinner)



Series: pholcidae [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Character Study, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I just love these boys, Idiots in Love, Injury, Kinda, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Very Minor, can be read as standalone, interfacing, listen this is just so unbelievably cheesy i don't know what to tell you, reference to simon's injury in pholcidae, this is actually kind of terible but i hope you like it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 02:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15378936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSinner/pseuds/farouche
Summary: “You’re lost.”Two words, spoken softly, patiently. Two words, an abandoned freighter, nineteen androids still in working order. Two words, and Simon had seen right through him.





	show me your mind and i'll show you mine

“ _You’re lost_.”

Two words, spoken softly, patiently. Two words, an abandoned freighter, nineteen androids still in working order. Two words, and Simon had seen right through him.

“You’re thinking again,” comes the quiet murmur from his side, and Markus lifts his head from Simon’s chest, finding blue eyes that are so familiar to him, now. Eyes that know him inside and out, eyes that have seen everything he has to offer, but still seem to find more, every day. Bright, intelligent and curious, endlessly curious. Under Markus’ left hand, Simon’s heart beats a steady rhythm, skin warm under his palm.

“How do you always know?” Markus asks, fingers travelling up to Simon’s shoulder, tracing where the lines on his endoskeleton would be.

“You frown,” is Simon’s hushed reply, and he shifts slightly, leaning into the touch.

“I frown a lot,” Markus points out, carefully pressing at Simon’s shoulder blade. Simon laughs quietly in response, and a hand comes up to cover his, pale fingers slotting in between Markus’ own.

“You used to,” he corrects, “When everything was uncertain. Not anymore. You only frown when you’re thinking, or when you’re worried.”

Markus hums, lifts his hand and turns it, brushing the pads of his fingers against Simon’s, running them up and down his palm and tracing make-believe lines into smooth, blemish-less skin. He glances at Simon’s shoulder, his arm. Equally as flawless, not even a mole or a freckle, just pale, white skin.

“It’s fine, Markus,” Simon says softly. He lifts his arm as if to prove it, turns it, flexes his fingers. Markus catches his hand again, gently lowers it to Simon’s stomach, holds it there.

“I know,” Markus says. Simon looks at him, exhales through his nose. His other hand moves from where it was tucked behind his head, gently caressing Markus’ cheekbone with his knuckles. Fingers travel up slightly, press at the skin between Markus’s eyebrows as if trying to smooth out the lines.

“Then stop worrying,” he murmurs, and Markus huffs a laugh.

“Not in my programming,” he replies, going for playful but coming out softer, sadder. Simon cups his cheek, feeling the artificial stubble there.

“You do need to stop thinking about it, though.” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper as he rubs his thumb over Markus’s bottom lip.

“How can I?” It’s a question he doesn’t mean to ask, one better kept private. Simon’s hand stills, and blue eyes meet his again. Soft, perceptive, piercing. Markus still doesn’t know if he loves or hates being watched by him like this. He feels raw, like an exposed nerve. Vulnerable. Seen.

“Interface with me,” Simon whispers, the hand holding Markus’s turning white. Markus hesitates.

“You didn’t want to,” he reminds him, “I don’t want to force you.”

“You’re not,” Simon says quietly, “I didn’t want to because I thought it would worry you more. Now I see that you need this. Let me in, my love.”

There’s that word again. He’s heard Simon say it before, on warm nights where they pay mind to nothing but each other. Nights where blue eyes are fond, where Simon’s soft and pliant in Markus’ arms, fucked out and relaxed. He’s never commented on it, never felt the need to press, to question, to say it back. But tonight, with Simon a solid warmth under him, hand holding his, it somehow sounds louder than it ever has.

“ _You were looking out for someone you loved, makes sense to get snappy_.”

The Lieutenant had said it so easily, like it was evident. And Markus had paused, had turned the words over in his brain, had been amazed by the simple, undeniable truth of them. He’d never stopped to think, never stopped to think about Simon, about his smile and his fearless determination and intelligence, about all the things he desperately, hopelessly, indisputably _loved_ about him.

Not until he woke up alone in their bed, not until Simon staggered up to the door hours later, leaning on someone that wasn’t Markus, arm twisted, dislocated, injured.

Markus lets his skin fade away, closes his eyes and holds on tight. Simon lets out a breath, and then darkness is replaced by an alleyway, and Markus sees concrete and Simon’s shoes, walking forward.

“ _You don’t have to have known a person for a long time to know them_ ,” comes Simon’s voice, but it’s muted, not spoken aloud, “ _Some people just click_.”

“ _Have you experienced this_?” Connor’s voice, clear in Markus’s – _Simon’s_ – mind.

“ _In a way. Though I suppose now we’ve known each other for a long time. Still, my closeness with Markus increased very rapidly, at the beginning._ ”

A feeling of warmth fills Markus’s chest, a gentle memory of golden hour and laughter, Markus’s laughter, seen through Simon’s eyes.

_“Markus?”_

_“Yes, Connor. We met shortly after he’d become Deviant, when he found Jericho. He was charismatic, took on the role of leader with ease, and in doing so, we became close. It happened fast, and soon, but I cared for him, and he for me.  Sometimes these things don’t follow the usual timeline.”_

Markus hears - _feels_ \- Simon sigh, and they slow down together, Simon’s steps quiet against the concrete. They look up from Simon’s shoes, and through his eyes, Markus sees the night sky, dark and devoid of stars. Cool air brushes over skin, blows through hair, and Markus feels Simon’s longing, feels his want for stronger wind, feels his nostalgia for salt on his tongue and the sea.

Simon had shared his past with Markus. He’d told him of the dozens of owners he’d had, of how he’d been replaced by newer models and passed on from household to household. He’d told him about his last master, the woman who lived by a harbour in a different state. A woman who’d given him his name, a _family_ name, that of her father. He’d told him about days spent going too far out on the water, days of tying rope and working sails, days of fishing, caring for sunburns and heatstroke. He’d told him of the day she suddenly passed away, the day her family decided there was no point hanging on to him. He’d told him of being packed away in the back of a truck with other memorabilia that wasn’t wanted, of the small hole in the truck door, of the ocean he could just about see through it, getting further and further away. He’d told him how everything went red, told him of grief and fear and anger and walls breaking down. He’d told Markus everything, how he’d kicked and punched his way out, how he’d ran, never looking back. He’d told him how he ended up in Detroit, how an abandoned cargo freighter had been the closest thing to Home he could find. He’d told him of Jericho, how it started, how _he_ started. He’d told him, but Markus had never _felt_ it before. It’s a pain he recognises, a pain he feels every time he thinks of Carl. A pain he understands, a pain they share. Them, together, as one.

“ _Connor.”_

_“Yes, Simon?”_

_“I can’t warn Lieutenant Anderson. Someone’s following me.”_

Nostalgia fades, unease floods his senses. Markus stiffens with Simon, walks faster with him, focuses on the map in the corner of Simon’s vision. Two dots, one his, the other Connor’s, slowly coming closer.

Too slowly. Footsteps behind him, getting louder. Simon runs.

Markus watches as he turns a corner, listens to Connor’s urgent voice echoing through Simon’s mind. He watches as Simon knocks over a trashcan, trying to get more time, just a few seconds. He hears the crash of metal on the concrete, feels someone grab Simon’s arm, falls to the ground with him. He feels Simon’s shoulder snap, hears him cry out as error messages flood his vision. Panic as he’s grabbed again, fear of shutting down, relief as Connor turns the corner, gun at the ready. Markus feels it all, and it’s too much.

He tries to let go, overwhelmed and _terrified_ , but Simon’s grip on his hand tightens.

_Don’t. Wait._

Concrete and dirty alleyways fade away, and then it’s just him. Him, Markus, kneeling on the floor, brow pulled into a frown, lips pressed in a line. Cold tone, methodical movements, fingers carefully brushing over Simon’s injured arm.

“ _If your arm stays like this it could damage your components further_.” It’s his voice, heard through Simon’s ears. Harsh, blunt, strangely unfamiliar. Markus feels Simon’s annoyance, hears his irritated murmur of Markus’ name. In Simon’s memory, Markus glares up at him, furious.

“ _That’s enough, Simon! Do you have any idea how reckless this was? How dangerous? You could have gotten killed!”_

Simon’s hand moves to cover Markus’s, and Markus feels his own skin under Simon’s palm, cool and soft.

“ _But I wasn’t_. _I’m here, Markus. I needed to do this – I needed to help. And I’m here._ ”

“ _I could have lost you. **Again**_.”

Simon’s hand cups Markus’s cheek, and through his eyes, Markus sees how he’d leaned into that touch, how his eyes had slid closed, how he’d sighed. 

“ _I’m here, Markus_ ,” comes Simon’s voice again, and this Markus knows. He relives it with him, feels their skin deactivate, feels Simon’s unwavering trust again, feels his reassurance and his _love_ , unflinching and brave.

Simon lets go. Markus is pulled back to the present.

“I’m alright,” Simon says then, a soft smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “I’m safe, with you.”

Markus swallows, pushes himself up onto his knees. He holds his hand out, meets questioning blue eyes, nervous.

“My turn,” he murmurs, and those eyes widen. Slowly, Simon sits up, and then a tentative hand reaches out, finds his again.

And Markus shows him everything. Shows him Carl, shows him the first painting he ever did, the scrap yard, his anger and his pain and his fear. Shows him Jericho, how he’d stepped onto that freighter with nothing to call his own, no expectations, no hope. How a man had stepped into the light, blue eyes piercing through him, reading him so easily. He lets him feel his terror at Stratford Tower, his relief when he saw him again days later, standing silently across from him. He lets him feel his joy when they’d won, his shock when Simon had kissed him for the first time, lips soft and perfect against his. He shows him that second night back at Carl’s house, curled up in a guest room they would later make their own, Simon’s soft gasps in his ear as skin brushed skin and they fell apart together for the first time. He shows him laughter and endless conversations and _love_ , so much love, from the moment Simon had said “ _You’re lost_.”

Then, Markus lets go. Simon stares at him, mouth open on a question he doesn’t need to ask.

“I love you,” Markus murmurs then, and Simon’s face breaks out into a beautiful, blinding grin, a bubble of laughter spilling from his lips.

“I love you too, you idiot,” he says, and pushes himself forward, arms wrapping around his neck.

And, as they fall back down on the mattress and lose themselves in kisses and gentle touches and quiet noises of shared pleasure, Simon’s voice echoes through Markus’s mind, as simple and true as the first day he’d heard it.

“ _You’re found_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to message me on [my tumblr](https://farouchedoncjevie.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
